


The Earth Is Only A Little Dust

by Monna99



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also Greenberg's first name is Alex, M/M, Rating is for the eventual conclusion, They get together when Greenberg is 20
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6691354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monna99/pseuds/Monna99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex Greenberg is in love with Coach Finstock. He doesn't know when it started but he does know it won't end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's not like Greenberg was born loving Coach Finstock. He smiles to himself when his teammates cringe at the things Coach says to him but they just don’t know. Against all appearances, Bobby is an easy man to love. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________

 

At first Bobby thinks it's a dog. It looks small enough, all curled into a ball, only a mop of brown visible.

"Get off him you good-for-nothing sissies!" He gets to the free-for-all that four kids are having against the poor mutt at their feet and grabs them by the backs of their shirts, throwing them off the ... kid. It's a goddamn kid. 

"Shit, let's go!" They're yelling and shoving each other out of the way.

"What the hell," he starts, but the punks have already taken off running. "Yeah, you better scatter for your worthless lives! I saw those jerseys, you idiots! We're gonna slaughter you at next week's game! Cowards!"

It's the sniffling coming from behind him that finally distracts him from his enraged pacing and he kneels by the bundle of arms, legs and hair.

"Shit, kiddo. They really did a number on you, huh?"

He's not moving so Bobby shifts closer and pats the kid on the head, trying to be as gentle as he knows how. The kid jerks away, startled. "Hey, hey, hey, hey. Just me, kid."

He puts both hands up to show he's harmless. Finally, that mop of hair moves and the kid lifts his head. Jesus, it's no wonder those savages ganged up on this poor guy. Kid's got the whole innocent Bambi thing going on. He's all gangly limbs and big, brown, doe eyes and a starburst of freckles across a thin, pale nose. He practically screams prey.

He sighs, standing and scrubs the back of his neck. "Well, kid, you can stay here and wait for them to come back or you can come with me and get cleaned up. What's it gonna be?"

The sniffling has stopped but the kid is still looking at him with those big distrustful eyes. "I'm not going with you," he spits out. 

Bobby grins. "Good to know they didn't kick the backbone out of you. Come on, kid you're caked in mud. You can't be walking around like that." He moves up the steps of his house, leaving the door open. He's just heating some milk up in the microwave when he hears the creak at the front entrance. 

"I left an old sweatshirt of mine in the bathroom down the hall to your right. Can't do much about your pants, I'm pretty sure even if I was a freak and still had clothes from when I was ten, they'd still be too big for you."

He waits but his only response are hesitant steps dragging down the entryway.

"You're welcome!" he yells, just to be an ass.

A giggle floats back from the bathroom and he rolls his eyes, tries not to grin. A giggle, for godsake. The kid's lucky he even made it to ten.

The shower starts running and he sits, grabbing his lesson plans. The school year is well underway and he still hasn't finished them. Not that the little ingrates he teaches appreciate all the hard work he puts into preparing every school day. Every single lesson is a gift from him to those hormone-addled, higher-function-impaired teenagers. And what does he get in return? Terrible pranks every year, that’s what. For once he’d a like a nice, normal present for his birthday. 

He's so busy berating the little brats in his head he doesn't hear the brat in his own home until the kid is standing right next to his chair. 

"Jesus! Make some noise, kid!" He wasn't scared, no siree, that was not him jumping. He just has crazy panther reflexes.

The little imp grins at him and it - well, it doesn't transform his face, but it’s definitely a good look. The kid is cute, no question. He's also swimming in Bobby's old college hoodie.

“Have a seat kiddo.” He gets up and reheats the milk, tossing some cookies onto a plate. Kids are all about milk and cookies, right? Or is that Santa Claus? Shit.

The chair scrapes back as the kid settles in, hunched over the table.

“Here, kid.” He sets the goods down and has a seat himself. “You’re welcome,” he says pointedly, when the little punk glares at him.

“I’m not a kid.” Small fists are clenched on top of the tabletop.

He sighs. “No? How old are you? Nine? Ten?”

The glare intensifies. “I’m thirteen,” the kid grits out. “And my name is Alex Greenberg, not kid.”

“Yeah?” He gazes down his nose in his best ‘stern coach’ look. “Pull the other one, kid. You’re not a day over eleven, and that’s me being generous.”

“I’m thirteen,” he insists, stuffing his face with chocolate chip cookies. “I’m starting high school next year.”

Bobby eyes the kid. The bones of his wrist are delicate, almost fragile-looking where he’s shoved the hoodie’s sleeves up. He has clearly outlined blue veins, his skin a dainty sea-shell pale. High school will not go easy on him.

“What high school are you going to?”

The kid pauses in licking his fingers and Bobby manfully resists the urge to shove a napkin at him.

“BHH,” he says, smiling. “I’m gonna join the Lacrosse team!”

“No, you’re not,” he snorts, before he can stop himself.

The kid’s eyes shimmer with anger and hurt, lower lip quivering before he clamps down on that plump, pinkness with his teeth. The slim chest expands as he takes a breath. “Why?”

He leans forward and gets a nose-full of the lemon-scented soap he uses, chocolate, and something that is uniquely the kid. Warm and sweet and bright. “Because. You’re not. I’m the lacrosse coach at BHH and you wouldn’t cut it, kid.”

Tears well up in those brown eyes making them luminous like backlit honey and the kid shoves to his feet. “Yes. I am,” he says with steely dignity. “Thanks for the food,” he mutters, turning away.

“You wouldn’t cut it the way you are now. The guys’ll have you for breakfast,” he says bluntly.

The kid turns his head, his hand on the front door.

“If you wanna make the team, you better start coming to practice when you get out of school. You’re going to have to work hard, and I’m damn well gonna give you a harder time than anyone. You got that? But you might make it, even if it is as a benchwarmer. You’ve at least got more guts than the sad wimp I call my lacrosse captain.”

“But you said-”

“I said, not the way you are now. You gotta practice. Drop in tomorrow and you can meet your future teammates. Just wait ‘til I tell them what happened today, they’re gonna pound those THS idiots into the ground.”

“Yes, Coach!” the kid gives him a silly salute, laughing and Bobby grins.

Then stops grinning when all 5 feet of bony teenager hurl into his chest. Skinny little arms wrap around his waist, squeezing tight for all of ten seconds before the kid turns and flees through the kitchen door, beet red.

It’s a full minute before he sits down again.

“Shit. That was my favorite hoodie.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, whoo! lol sorry for the insanely long wait ^_^'
> 
> It's not a pairing with a huge following though, is it? We gotta write our own stuff.
> 
> And on that note, THANK YOU SO MUCH for the wonderful comments and the kudos! *blows kisses*

“All right, ladies enough of braiding each other’s hair. Get your asses out to the field!” The coach’s voice booms over their heads as the players scramble to be the first out the door.

Greenberg stands, gathering his and the other players’ mesh nets that he’d been fixing, a.k.a. making worse. 

“Move it, Slowberg! Those nets should have been finished yesterday!”

Sneat, that nosy little punk, says, “But, Coach, you just gave them to him today.”

“Did I ask for your input, Snot? No? That’s right, I didn’t. You and the Cabbage Patch here, along with all those other losers, are going to run drills as punishment.” He blows his whistle sharply to drown out the junior’s complaints.

Greenberg keeps carefully stacking the sticks against the far wall, unconcerned that Bobby is practically breathing fire down his neck. He’s a cool little shit, Finstock has to give him that. He backs up an inch, studying the kid. “Doesn’t it bother you that I yell at you?”

Greenberg doesn’t look up. “Nope.”

“Uhh. Okay. Are you gonna go home and cry later?”

The kid glares at him, indignant. “Of course not.”

Finstock’s at a loss. “Why?”

“Why won’t I cry?” Greenberg asks dryly.

The kid makes Bobby feel like he’s the idiot somehow. Like there’s something obvious he’s missing. “Yeah.”

One slim shoulder lifts in a negligent shrug. “I know you’re only doing it so the other guys don’t pick on me. If you treated me special they’d hate me.”

Bobby gapes. He realizes after a moment his lips are flapping but no sound is coming out. Well, what the hell does he say to that? “Just get to the field.”

 

“Iceberg, pick up the pace!”

Greenberg pants and tries to push past the painful stitches in his side but he’s slowing down against his best intentions. 

The other players have already finished running drill and are milling around looking all sorts of hot with their shirts off showing their stupidly fit bodies. Alex gasps, his breathing becoming painful and his awkward canter slowing to an even more awkward hop-walk combination that makes the coach throw up his hands in the air and run over to him. Greenberg tugs the jersey back over his shoulder. It keeps slipping off one side even though Coach says it’s the smallest they have.

“Unless you wanna be running drills all night, get your fat ass jogging!” 

Greenberg would laugh if he’d had any breath left. As it is, a worrying itch is beginning in his lungs that has him clutching at his chest.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” the coach asks suspiciously. 

“As-” Alex gasps, doubling over. “Asth-”

Coach grasps his shoulder making him stand up straight again.

“Asthma!” he forces out.

“What?” Coach looks blank. “What’s wrong with you?”

Alex is getting control over his breathing a bit better now that he’s stopped and it only takes a second for him to reiterate. “Asthma, but it’s minor,” he adds quickly.

“Nothing,” Finstock corrects. “The correct answer is nothing. There is nothing wrong with you because kids with asthma DO NOT GET TO PLAY LACROSSE. Turn in your jersey, you’re done.” 

Alex clutches at his shirt and he can feel tears welling in his eyes. “No.”

“What did you say?”

“I said no,” he repeats louder watching the veins stand out on Coach’s neck and his face get red. “I’m going to play. I love lacrosse.”

“You love being a punching bag, you mean. Because that’s all you’re going to be if you can’t even run.”

“I can get better, Coach,” he says eagerly. “You said you’re gonna train me the hardest, remember? You’re gonna make me a player.”

Bobby watches him grimly. The kid’s eyes are shining with the determination of someone who’s watched too many goddamn Disney movies. Real life shatters dreams. And Bobby is about to hand-deliver a steaming pile of real life straight to this kid’s naive, longing, fairytale-loving face. Any minute. Any _min_ ute. _Any_ minute. “Gimme a goddamn break!” he yells finally at the top of his lungs. He can see his other players look over sympathetically at Greenberg then cringe and slink away when he glares at them. “You’re gonna get murdered. You know that, right?”

“I can take whatever they dish out. I’m strong.”

Bobby raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You call taking a beating being strong?”

“No, I call getting back up being strong.”

Finstock squints at him skeptically. “Okay, seriously, kid. How old are you?”

Greenberg giggles and Bobby just about whacks himself in the balls with the lacrosse stick so he carefully sets it down. One of those experiences in a lifetime is more than enough. He glares at the kid. 

“I’ll train you, but it’s gonna suck and you’re going to hate me. And don't get cocky, you barely started high school, there's a lot you gotta learn. Now go hit the showers.”

“I’ll never hate you, Coach,” Greenberg says with all the unwavering conviction only a kid can muster. “I know you’re gonna train me super hard, but it’ll be for my own good.”

Bobby stares, unable to formulate a single response. Finally, he can only groan, “I hate you.”

Alex giggles. 

“I hate you more than anyone,” he yells after him.

“Love you too, Coach,” the kid calls back.

The others players laugh, then pale and freeze when the coach turns his frown on them. “Hit the showers, all of you! You look like a bunch of sissies out here with your guts hanging out.”

 

The high, shrill screech of the ref’s whistle cuts through the noise and chatter, leaving a fragmented silence. 

“What the hell are you doing, Greenberg?” Bobby yells, practically purple with rage. He can’t remember the last time he’d been so mad. “You’re supposed to be playing lacrosse, not doing your best impersonation of a tackle dummy.” He hauls the kid off the field. “Are you just gonna let everyone pummel you?”

The rest of the team gathers around, looking furious or scared. Rightfully so. The little idiot had stood there and taken a nasty hit from a player twice his size and he hadn’t moved for a full thirty seconds afterward. “Let’s go, I’m taking you to the nurse.”

“I’m fine, Coach.” Greenberg tries to wriggle out of his grasp.

Bobby very nearly loses his shit. “I will believe you’re fine when a medical professional tells me you’re fine, you moron. That behemoth could have killed you! Why the hell did you just stand there?”

“He would have scored if I’d moved.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure your mother would have been real comforted if we put ‘died defending the goal’ on your damned headstone.”

The kid takes off his helmet even as he jogs behind Bobby to keep up. “You always tell us to defend the goal with our lives.”

He reaches back to smack the kid on the head but then remembers he might have a head injury and settles for flicking his shoulder lightly. “Okay, A, I’m exaggerating. And, B, I tell the other guys that because they can take a hit. You look like a stiff wind will snap you in half.”

“It won’t,” the kid argues, all injured pride. “I’m tough.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Settle down there, Chuck Norris.”

“Who?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Bobby asks as they reach the health office. “What are they teaching you kids these days?”

 

“Coach! Coach!”

Bobby freezes. By all that is holy, that cannot be who he thinks.

“Coach Finstock!”

Goddamnit, it’s his day off! This is why he hates small towns. Bobby dodges behind a fake, styrofoam pillar advertising the newest thriller movie ignoring the grumbles as he shoves past a middle-aged couple.

A pale, freckled, five foot nothing mop of brown hair rounds the corner at breakneck speed and just manages not to barrel into the display. 

The kid gasps a deep lungful of air. “Coach! I don’t think you heard me, I was calling you back there.”

Alex Greenberg. 

Bobby would beat his head against the pillar if it had been made of sterner stuff.

“I did hear you, haven’t you ever heard of ignoring someone?”

The thousand-watt smile dims and Bobby feels like the biggest asshole on the planet. Given that he feels like that pretty regularly, it doesn’t faze him much.

“Why were you ignoring me?” Wide, honey eyes flash hurt.

“Because it’s my day off, for fuck’s sake,” Bobby grumbles, not able to inject as much venom into it as he wants to. Doesn’t he already give these kids enough? Now he has to be a goddamn role model on his days off too?

“Oh!” The kid grins at him. “Yeah, I get it. I don’t wanna think about school when I’m not there.”

Bobby frowns. “You should be thinking about school. You need to focus on your education.”

“Right, right,” the little brat has the gall to roll his eyes. “I know, but not like every minute of the day.”

Bobby sniffs, disapprovingly.

“So, what movie are you watching?” he asks, all sunshine and fucking kittens.

“None of your business,” he grumbles.

Greenberg sighs at him. _Sighs_. Like he’s trying the little shit’s patience. “I’m gonna watch Alien Wars,” he says leadingly.

“What a coincidence, that’s exactly what I’m not watching.”

“I already saw you buy the ticket.”

Bobby groans. “Don’t you need to be seventeen to watch this movie? You can’t go in without an adult.”

The kid grins and Bobby’s holding up a hand, expression thunderous, even before Greenberg opens his mouth. “You’re an adult,” says the cheeky brat.

“I am not your goddamn guardian. Where are your parents?” He asks in desperation.

“My mom’s working,” Greenberg reveals, hopping closer to Bobby to avoid being bowled over by a herd of teenagers enveloped in a cloud of perfume eagerly yapping about how _hot_ so-and-so guy is.

He narrows his eyes at the brat. “Then you’re out of luck, kid. No one under seventeen without an accompanying adult. An adult that agreed to accompany you!” he snaps, when the kid looks ready to point out the obvious again.

“But,” the kid sniffs. “I’m already here.”

Bobby snorts. “Go sell the crocodile tears to your granny.”

A speculative gleam enters those whiskey eyes. “What if I promise to stay on the bench for the next game?”

“W-what?” Bobby gapes.

“You wanna beat Red River High real bad. And I still suck so I might cost us the game, but rules say you gotta put me in. So, what if I agreed to be benched for the next game?”

The older man narrows his eyes. “You love playing - although you do still suck - why would you agree to bench yourself for a whole game over a stupid movie?”

Greenberg flushes a dark, unsightly red that spreads down his neck. “It’s not just some stupid movie,” he protests weakly.

Bobby’s at a loss for words - it’s getting annoying that the brat’s responsible for that with worrying regularity. “You know they’re not actually carding people to get into the movie, right? You could get in by yourself.”

The kid looks away. “I just wanna watch it with you, okay?”

And … yeah. Bobby’s not going anywhere near that with a ten-foot pole. 

Greenberg sighs, shoulders slumping and turns away. 

“Fine.”

“What?” The kid looks back at him, surprise quickly dissolving to delight.

Shit. He’d said that, hadn’t he? Fuck’s sake. “But I’m not buying you popcorn! And you better not cry if your favorite alien dies or some shit like that.”

The kid looks fit to burst with happiness. “Right!”

What a weird kid. Bobby sure as hell had never wanted to spend time with any of his teachers when he was in school, although maybe that’s because he’d never had a teacher as cool as he is. He sighs, defeated. Well, it could always be worse, he could be spending time with Jerry, his geriatric, smelly neighbor who likes to yell that the country is being lost to foreigners.

“Fuck it, I’m buying popcorn. And not a word about my swearing, got it?”

“Yes, Coach.” The kid gives him an impish salute that has Bobby’s lips twitching in amusement against his will.

“Quit calling me that. I told you, I’m off the clock.”

“Then, can I call you Bobby?”

“No!” He barks. “You can call me Mr. Finstock.”

“Yes, Coach!”


	3. Chapter 3

“What’s this?” Bobby sniffs the bright purple envelope suspiciously. The untidy scrawl on the outside reads _Coach Finstock_ and he knows from long-suffering nights trying to decipher minuscule, illegible scribbles that the writing is Greenberg’s. 

“Open it.” The kid is practically bouncing on his toes in excitement.

Bobby’s eyes narrow. Oh hell no, he thinks. Not this year. These vicious little bastards have pranked him one too many times. He shoves the envelope back into the kid’s hands. “You open it,” he demands. 

Greenberg rolls his eyes but tears into the paper unhesitatingly. 

Bobby takes the rather plain card stock. “What is this?”

“It’s a birthday party invitation.”

“I’m not blind, kid. I know what it is, I meant, why are you giving this to me?”

Greenberg leans back against the bookshelf and Bobby notes absently that even when he looks unchanged, the kid has grown. Not that it’s been much of a growth spurt, he’s still the shortest kid on the team. 

“So you’ll go to my party.”

Finstock rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s been sporting a headache all morning and the only thing he wants to do is go home, put his feet up, and watch the Chargers annihilate the Cowboys. Maybe he’ll even throw in some pizza. “Kid-”

“Don’t say that.”

Bobby’s head jerks up. “What?”

“Don’t say kid. Anytime you start a sentence like that it’s because you’re going to tell me something I won’t like.”

Bobby sighs. “You don’t think it’s a little weird to invite your middle-aged teacher to your birthday party?”

“You’re not middle-aged, you’re only thirty-five.”

“How the hell do you-” Bobby takes a deep breath. “Stay out of the personnel files, you weirdo.”

Alex laughs, unrepentant. “Come on, please?”

“No can do, kiddo. Sorry,” he adds brusquely when the kid really does look crushed. “But I mean, you’ll have fun, right? Lotta kids your age and everything? Maybe even a few girls?” Bobby winks but the kid’s not biting.

“Right.” It’s so much worse when Greenberg tries to give a half-hearted smile. He shrugs, looking embarrassed. “It’s not gonna be anything big really.”

Bobby frowns. He’s a lot more fluent in Greenberg-speak now. “How not-big is it gonna be?”

“Well …”

“Kid,” he begins warningly.

“Umm, I was gonna make dinner?”

“Okay?”

“For us?”

“Who’s us?”

Greenberg mutters something at his shoes and Finstock taps his desk sharply to get him to look back up. 

“I’m up here, kid. Who’s us?”

“Me and you,” he says finally, sounding ready to die of humiliation. He’s certainly red enough that all the blood in his body looks like it rushed to his head. 

“You were going to cook me dinner for your birthday?” he asks in amazement. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he’s even surprised. The kid does weird shit all the time. “What about your parents? Friends? Neighbors?”

Greenberg just shakes his head.

“Dog?” Bobby finally asks in desperation and Alex laughs, though it’s weak.

“My mom travels a lot for work and she can’t be here this week,” he says lightly, like it doesn’t matter. “My dad calls for my birthday and he sends a card, but he can’t be here either.” He scuffs his shoe on the linoleum in the office. “I guess I could invite a friend but,” he shrugs. “I don’t want to.”

Bobby rubs at his now-pounding temples. The kid’s an HR nightmare waiting to happen. Still … how fucked up is it that his parents won’t be around? Being alone in the kid’s house is a definite no-no though. Hell of a way to unnecessarily complicate his life. 

“When’s your birthday?”

Greenberg’s gaze jerks back to his and a tentative hope begins to flare in his eyes. “Sunday.”

“Okay. You kids still like Chuck-e-Cheese?”

Greenberg laughs, genuinely, loudly, making Bobby grin in response. “I’m turning fourteen, not four.”

“Got it. You’re a grown man,” he says, rolling his eyes. “How do you feel about roller coasters?”

The kid immediately perks up. “I love them!”

Finstock sighs, kissing his beautiful, peaceful, relaxing weekend goodbye. “Well, I happen to know of a fair in Gillette. Feel like hitting it up?”

“Really?! You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.” Which, now that he thinks about it, is a legitimate concern. 

“Then, yes!” The kid looks ready to launch himself across the desk to tackle-hug him, so Finstock holds up a restraining hand. 

“Great. I’ll pick you up here in front of the school at four, but I get to talk to your mom first to make sure she’s okay with it.”

Greenberg’s enthusiasm wanes a little at that, but he nods quickly at Bobby’s frown. “Sure. It won’t be a problem.”

“Okay then.”

 

Bobby pulls onto the school grounds at three-thirty on Sunday afternoon and sure enough, Greenberg’s already waiting.

He shakes his head at the hopeless kid, though the teen hasn’t seen him yet. He’s sitting on the red-and-white-stained stone bench near the flagstaff, knees pulled up to his chest, wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans combo that makes Bobby roll his eyes. The weather forecast calls for a temperature drop in Gillette. Leave it to kids never to plan ahead. The ruffled head is bent over his phone and he’s plucking at a dried leaf with his right hand.

It’s a very peaceful scene so Bobby does the only thing he can and honks the horn three times sharply, laughing in true asshole fashion when Greenberg jumps and nearly falls off the seat. It’s petty revenge, but Bobby needs to feel like he’s still himself. This kid’s been chipping away at his very essence in slow, excruciating ways and the worst part is, he’s not even trying to stop it.

The passenger door flies open and Greenberg hops into the car, grinning broadly, no hint of reproach for Bobby’s dickishness.

“Hi, Coach!”

He sighs.

“Sorry, Mr. Finstock.”

Great, now Bobby feels like an even bigger heel. “It’s fine, kid. Oh, um, here you go,” he says reaching into the backseat of his nineteen-ninety-seven, two-tone Mercury Mountaineer. He hands the kid the colorful, haphazardly-wrapped box. “Happy birthday and all that.”

Greenberg’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “Why did you buy me a present?” he asks, like he’d never heard of such a thing before.

“I don’t know, it’s your birthday. You give kids presents on their birthdays, right?”

“My present is being here with you.”

“Uh,” Bobby squints at the kid. “Oo-kay. Anyway, don’t open it yet. Wait ‘til you’re back home.”

“Okay,” Greenberg agrees, smiling softly down at the badly wrapped gift. 

Bobby suddenly, desperately wishes he hadn’t extended this invitation and that he hadn’t bought the kid anything. It all feels … too much. He’s getting too involved and even though he’s gotten close to past students, this deal with Greenberg is different. He can feel it in his bones. 

This is his chance to turn back, to change the course of things. 

Greenberg looks back up at him, still that same sweet smile stretching his lips and Bobby puts the car in drive. 

 

Parking at the fair is an absolute bitch and he can already tell that getting out will be a hell of an even bigger problem. Too goddamn late now.

“Don’t forget where we parked unless you wanna spend the night at a freaking fair,” he instructs. 

Greenberg laughs. He possibly thinks Bobby’s kidding. 

When they reach the main entrance the kid reaches for his wallet, which Bobby shoves back incensed. “It’s your birthday, you cretin.” He yanks out two hundred dollar bills and hands them to the man in the ticket booth. 

“How much of it do you want in tickets?” the attendant asks, not paying them much attention.

“All of it.” What the hell, he figures, not like he goes out much anyway. 

Greenberg stares, mouth agape. 

“What?” he grumbles. One day of splurging a little isn’t going to make a dent. Between the two of them, they should be able to use up all the tickets and, if not, there were plenty of kids to unload them on. “If you’re going to a carnival you gotta go all-out. That’s the experience,” he explains, taking the bucketload of tickets. “You gotta do the popcorn, the corn dogs, the candy corn, the cotton candy, the candy apples, all those game stands … I’m missing something,” he thinks aloud.

“The rides?” Greenberg asks impishly.

“Oh, right. Those too.”

The kid laughs, uninhibited. 

 

There’s a hell of a lot of rides he’s never seen before, Bobby realizes quickly. Granted, it’s been awhile since he stepped foot in a fair. The crowd isn’t as big as he’d feared but the noise is just as loud as he’d hoped it wouldn’t be. He quickly sidesteps a screeching toddler. 

“Yeah, this is fun,” he says brightly, trying to keep the sarcasm under wraps.

He doesn’t think he quite manages it by the way Greenberg coughs to cover up a laugh. “Where do you want to go first?” he asks eagerly.

“I don’t know.” He glances nervously at all the crazy, gravity-defying structures. “I don’t really like rides, you pick something.” 

“You don’t like rides,” Greenberg repeats slowly in disbelief. “Then why did you offer to bring me here?”

Bobby shrugs. “Figured it was the sort of thing you’d like. You’re pretty fearless, you know.”

Something about the expression that crosses the kid’s face makes Bobby uncomfortable and he clears his throat. “Anyway, I’m not gonna back down from a few wimpy carnival rides. Bring ‘em on.”

Alex tilts his head consideringly. “Maybe we should start with the carousel first.”

“That spineless contraption? No way. Let’s go for that thing over there,” he says pointing.

Greenberg looks skeptical. “That’s called the frisbee. I don’t think-”

“I do. Come on!”

Alex sighs but follows the older man, grinning. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

They don’t have to stand in line for very long and too soon the operator is taking their tickets and Bobby swallows as he climbs into the deathtrap. 

The kid takes the spot next to him. “We can still get off,” he yells over the blaring music. 

Bobby clutches at the chest restraint. “No goddamn way.” No way is some ninety-pound little punk gonna out-brave him. Still, when Greenberg surreptitiously slips his hand into Bobby’s, he doesn’t pull away. 

“Oh God. Don’t ever let me do that again,” Bobby moans stumbling away from the ride and blindly following along as Greenberg tugs at his hand.

“I told y-”

“If you finish that sentence I swear I will throw up on you.”

The kid laughs, but Bobby forgives him when pushes a bottle of water into his hands. “Here.”

“Oh thank Buddha.” He sips at the water and soon enough the queasy feeling disappears. He expels a relieved breath, eyeing the kid who looks fresh as a daisy. Damn delicate constitution.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah,” he answers a little sheepishly. “You hungry yet? Why don’t we take a break from those hellish machines and pick up some grub?”

Greenberg immediately lights up. “Sure!”

They wander the fair, undecided about what to eat. Pretty much everything smells mouth-watering, though the hygiene status looks a bit questionable. 

Greenberg meanders over to a stall with a group of teen girls who look at him and giggle, whispering among each other. Bobby grins.

“They have burgers at that stall,” he says when he makes his way back. 

“That’s not all they have,” Bobby responds slyly and elbows the kid teasingly. 

Greenberg looks up at him in confusion and follows the coach’s gaze to the gaggle of girls who twitter and wave back. The kid flushes and turns away. 

“You should go say hi,” Bobby encourages. “I’ll wait here.”

Greenberg raises an unhappy gaze to his, mouth pursed in a grimace and Bobby clamps his mouth shut.

_Oh_. Well, okay, maybe there was a cute boy the kid could hang out with instead. He clears his throat. “You know, I’m not really feeling burgers. Let’s go check out the hot dog stand.”

The kid nods though it’s somewhat subdued.

“Hey,” he says, throwing an arm around those slumped shoulders and squeezing supportively, “ _whatever_ you want, I’m okay with. All right? No one gets to decide what you need except for you.” He hopes that gets the message across. He’s not very good with heartfelt speeches.

Greenberg looks up at him, gaze searching. His face is much too close and Bobby backs off. “Thanks,” he says finally. His tone is soft, but the shy grin makes a comeback so Bobby counts that as a win. 

“Anytime, kid. Now come on, I got a date with a hot dog.”

 

“We can ride that one,” Finstock says, though even he can hear the heavy reluctance in his voice.

Greenberg’s lips twitch. “No, that’s okay.”

Bobby sighs. He takes the kid’s arm and pulls him to the side, skirting around a group of about ten boisterous, drunken idiots dressed as cowboys who nearly barrel into them. “Sorry, I guess it’s a pretty crappy birthday.”

The kid shifts closer and smiles, shaking his head. “It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

Bobby huffs a laugh, not sure what to make of that. “Well, it’s not over yet, anyway. How do you feel about the ferris wheel?”

When they’re at the apex he looks at the wide-eyed wonder with which the kid is staring at the now-glimmering lights of the fair below them. The rapidly-falling night makes everything more beautiful, the ugliness revealed in the stark, unforgiving daylight now muted and softened. Snatches of conversation travel to them from the other pods, disjointed voices that entwine and blend together. He sees Greenberg shiver and cross his arms and he shakes his head, yanking off his hoodie to toss onto the kid’s wind-tousled head.

Greenberg pulls it down and presses his lips together to hide a grin.

“You’re gonna leave me without any sweaters at this rate,” he tells the kid, sounding more amused than he’d intended. “By the way, whatever happened to that hoodie I lent you when we first met? It’s from my alma mater, you know.”

“Oh, I think it’s around somewhere,” Greenberg answers vaguely and unconvincingly, cheeks flushed - though it’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt or the cold. 

“Uh huh,” is all he says, as the kid burrows into his sweatshirt. “More candy corn?”

 

The silent walk back to the car is surprisingly pleasant. Against all odds, it was a good day. He hums lightly under his breath, putting out a steadying hand to Greenberg who knocks into his side.

“You sneak a drink while I wasn’t looking?” he asks suspiciously.

Greenberg snorts.

“Don’t do it,” he says, suddenly serious and he doesn’t know where the wrenching in his gut is coming from. “Don’t go down that path, it’s a very destructive one.”

He can feel the kid’s too-knowing eyes tracking him but he can’t turn to meet them. For all he knows that part of his past is in his personnel file too.

“Okay,” is all Alex says softly.


	4. Chapter 4

“Damn it, kid,” Finstock growls when Greenberg drops into the chair across his desk and takes his cup. “That’s mine!” 

The brat smirks at him and takes a drink of his coffee anyway.

“You’re gonna stunt your growth even more,” he mutters vengefully. 

The kid snorts, uncaring, and props his feet up on the desk. 

“Hey!” he barks, shoving them off. “Why aren’t you out there with your friends eating lunch?”

“I wanna eat with you.”

Bobby raises his head from the mountain of Econ papers he’s grading and pointedly looks at the kid’s empty hands. “I don’t see your lunch.” He’s getting better at ignoring the weird things the kid says and does. 

“I made the lunches yesterday, it was your turn.” And something about how he says those words makes Bobby look away. It’s getting to be more often the more the kid hangs around. He needs to put a stop to it.

The _tap tap tap_ on the frame of his open door interrupts whatever he’d been going to say. He’s not sure what that was anymore. “I have two toasted subs with chips and drinks here for a Mr. Finstock?”

“Yeah,” he says, standing automatically. He grabs his wallet and gives the guy a twenty, but snatches it back and holds it just out of reach, staring suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

The delivery driver shares a long-suffering look with Greenberg. “I’m nineteen.”

His eyes narrow even more until Greenberg stands and sighs. “Just pay the man, Bobby,” he huffs, exasperated.

It’s enough for Finstock to turn to him, jaw nearly coming unhinged, not even noticing when the little delivery jerk plucks the twenty from his hand and makes off with the change. “You- what- how-”

Greenberg laughs and hefts the lunches. “Sorry, sorry. But if I hadn’t shocked you, you’d still be arguing with him about how old he is. I only have thirty minutes.”

He grumbles at the little shit, taking his own lunch and sitting down, then glances up in surprise when Greenberg doesn’t reach for his sandwich. “What’s wrong?” he asks around a bite of his double-loaded Italian meat sub. “I got you the Thai peanut one you like.”

Greenberg glances down at the sandwich still in the bag then back up at Finstock. “You bought me lunch?” he asks, insultingly shocked.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “I swear to God, kid. I don’t know why you hang out with me if you think I’m such a shitty person. Of course I bought you lunch. You brought me lasagna yesterday for fuck’s sake.”

“Oh.” Greenberg picks up his sub when Bobby glares. “Right. Thanks.”

Finstock ignores the kid’s pleased, shy grin.

 

Bobby stretches and cracks his back. “Don’t you have a bus to catch?”

Greenberg looks up distractedly from his book. “Hmm?”

“Bus,” Bobby repeats. “You. Home. Go.”

The kid huffs and stands. “No, the buses left at three-thirty. I’m gonna walk home.”

Bobby’s not going to ask. No sir, he’s going to keep his mouth shut and walk out that door without looking back. “It’s thirty degrees and your house is five miles away. Why the hell are you walking?” he hears himself demand. Goddamit. 

The kid shrugs and waits while Bobby gathers his files. He stares pensively around the little room. “Aren’t you going to decorate your office? It would look nice. Festive.”

“I am being festive, I’ve decided to play the Grinch this year.”

Alex laughs. “All right, Mr. Grinch. Looks like it’s up to me to make your heart grow three sizes.” He gives one more look at the cramped space and nods. “Let’s go Christmas shopping.”

Bobby leans against the desk, eyes narrowed. “What have I done wrong to give you the impression that we’re friends? Please tell me so I can fix it.”

Greenberg rolls his eyes, unhurt. Kid has a hell of a thick skin. It’s actually kind of impressive. “Come on, just a few lights will look great and then you won’t be the only teacher who hasn’t decorated.”

“I’m pretty sure, Mr. Abrams didn’t put up Christmas lights.”

“He still decorated. He put up a menorah. Come on,” the kid wheedles. “Let’s go buy some Christmas stuff.”

“Kid-”

“Alex,” the kid articulates, sounding out the separate syllables.

Fuck sakes. He’s not going to do what the kid wants. He’s going to walk to his car, turn up the heat, drive home, pop his frozen dinner in the microwave and eat it in front of the television. He’s not going to think about the kid walking five miles in the brisk December weather. Not like it’ll kill him. Missing the bus was his own damned fault for staying late to … sit in a stuffy office with his coach. “Let’s go Christmas shopping,” he grumbles, defeated.

 

Greenberg hums along with the holiday music on the radio and for all his bitching Bobby doesn’t turn it off. 

“Take a right on Coleman,” the kid advises when they’re walled in by the afternoon rush traffic. They end up at the Forever Christmas shop downtown because Greenberg said he liked to drop in to visit the sweet old lady who runs the store. Finstock had groaned. Loudly. 

“At least it isn’t jam-packed,” he grouses finding a parking spot right out front. 

Alex stuffs his hands in the pockets of the light, fossil-gray windbreaker that had been Bobby’s birthday present and steps through the door the coach holds open. The tiny bell overhead chimes in welcome. 

“Oh, Alex. How nice to see you!” 

Bobby’s jaw drops. When Greenberg said he wanted to visit the sweet old lady Bobby had been picturing some diminutive, ninety-year-old woman getting around on a walking stick.

“Hi, Mrs. Washington,” Greenberg greets the towering six-foot nothing, linebacker-shouldered … woman. He watches her easily heft a twenty-by-twenty inch box overflowing with stacks of brightly-colored books. 

“Jesus,” he breathes then grunts as Greenberg digs an elbow into his ribs. The only thing old about her is the steel-colored hair twisted into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Steel being the operative word. “You sure that’s a woman?” he can’t help but ask.

Greenberg stomps on his foot. “Ow. Christ, okay. Sorry,” he gripes clutching at his tennis shoe. His toe is throbbing. “Does she play lacrosse?”

“Come on,” Greenberg mutters, rolling his eyes. He takes Bobby’s arm and pulls him into the aisle littered with strings of multi-colored lights. The kid looks around, honey eyes shining. “These are nice. They’re shaped like ornaments.” He runs his fingers over them gently and turns to grin at the older man.

Bobby looks heavenward and sighs. There goes that sweet new chair massager he wanted to buy, he thinks and reaches for the box. He looks at the kid, cheeks still suffused with pink from the nip outside and hefts a second box. “Let’s check out the trees.”

“You’re getting a tree?” Greenberg follows behind him in disbelief.

“I haven’t decorated my place and it’s probably only a matter of time before you harp on me for that,” he huffs. He can practically feel the kid radiating smugness his way. 

“Can I help you decorate?”

“You kidding? You’re gonna be doing most of the work. This is your fault.” He nearly drops one of the boxes when the kid latches onto his arm. 

“Okay!” he exclaims, way too happy. 

Finstock can’t even act annoyed. “All right, all right, get off,” he grumbles, not quite able to keep a grin off his face. “You’re not gonna be this happy when the guys are pissed at you for making them help me with this.”

“What?” Greenberg looks a lot less thrilled suddenly. “The team’s gonna be there? Why?”

Bobby raises an eyebrow. “Because it’s the yearly- Oh, that’s right, you weren’t here for it last year.” He squeezes past a young couple holding hands. “Once a year I have the guys come over and do chores around my house. They pull weeds, clean the gutters, that kind of thing, then I buy them dinner and let them cut loose. What?” he says defensively when Greenberg shakes his head. “It’s good for team-building.The little bastards tried to sneak in alcohol last year though, can you believe that? Idiots.”

“Yeah.”

He eyes the kid who suddenly looks like his puppy just died. “What’s your damage, kid? The guys giving you a hard time?”

“No.”

Oh, Christ, they’re down to monosyllabic answers. What now? He wracks his brain for what could have set the kid off but he has no idea. “You sure they’re not being assholes?”

Greenberg shrugs. “No more than usual.”

Bobby sighs. “It’s not that bad, okay. I have you guys do a couple things then buy pizza, but if you hate the thought that much, you can sit this one out.”

“No!” The kid’s head jerks back up. “I want to be there.”

“Okay.” Bobby mentally shrugs. He needs to give up trying to understand the kid. It’s damned hard. “Well, in that case, we can do it this weekend.”

Greenberg nods thoughtfully, then looks at Bobby from the corner of his eye. “What if-?” He bites his lip.

“What if what?”

“What if instead of ordering pizza, I cook?”

“You want to cook?” Booby resists the temptation to reach up and clean out his ears. “You want to cook for the whole team?” 

He pretends he doesn’t hear the kid’s muttered, _I want to cook for_ you. 

“Well,” he thinks that over. “I guess if you want to, that’s okay. But that’s a hell of a lot of work, kid.”

Greenberg shrugs. “I like cooking. And I’m good at it.”

“You’re decent,” Bobby counters automatically. It’s a knee-jerk response, just a light dig, but the kid really is a good cook. 

“I’m better than you,” Alex challenges like that’s any kind of argument.

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but that’s not saying much,” Finstock retorts. 

The little brat’s lips twitch in amusement but he lets that go. “Are you getting real or artificial?” he asks as they reach the rows of trees at the far end of the shop. 

“Real,” Bobby says definitively, following as the kid moves away from the boxed artificial crap. 

There aren’t too many real trees to choose from, only about fifteen, but there’s a decent selection. “The pines are nice,” Alex murmurs thoughtfully, “but … Oh! Look, Bobby, this one’s beautiful!”

Finstock groans but doesn’t snap at the kid. He’s absolutely going to put a stop to that, though. The kid can’t go around calling him by his first name. If he does, all the other little miscreants will follow suit. 

“It’s a blue spruce. What do you think? And it smells great. It’s not flocked though.”

“I don’t care about that,” Bobby assures. “Sure, what the hell, let’s take it.”

Alex grins at him. “I’ll tell Mrs. Washington.” He’s a few steps away when he calls back without turning, “We’ll need to go grocery shopping too if I’m going to cook!”

Well, shit. He’s getting a distinct feeling that he’s just been set up. He waits for the kid, two oversized boxes of Christmas lights under his arms and doesn’t mind it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there goes another chapter :D hope you peeps are liking it!
> 
> Oh! Also, I'm making a change: originally I was going to have Greenberg and Finstock get together when he's seventeen, but that doesn't feel true to the story anymore, so I'm changing it to twenty.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from W.B. Yeats "The Celtic Twilight"


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